


...In a Blue Dress

by alwaysamy



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysamy/pseuds/alwaysamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has company in hell, but it's not as comforting as it could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...In a Blue Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Written during the second season of Supernatural, before we knew what Kripke's hell was like.

_now_

He should have figured, really. If anybody was born to wind up in hell, it was Lilah Morgan.

She has the same cat’s eyes, the same full mouth with the same sly smile. But a gaping slash is a necklace around her throat now, and judging by the stiff set of her shoulders, it still hurts. Probably always will. It’s hell, after all.

He pretends that the thought isn’t shamefully satisfying.

“John.” She tilts her head, the dark silk of her hair falling across one eye. “Fancy finding you here. I could have sworn you had 'martyr' tattooed on your ass.”

“Lilah.” He doesn’t move when she drops down beside him, doesn’t even turn his head. “I see you went for early admission, huh?”

She snorts delicately. “I’m impressed. Has hell given you a sense of humor? Someone should put that in the brochure.”

“What do you want, Lilah?” He can’t keep the weariness out of his voice. Doesn’t bother to try, to be honest.

She lifts a shoulder. Her voice is as bored as his is tired. “To pass the time.”

He doesn’t bother to consider saying no, either. Time is all he has left, and he has more than his share.

*

_then_

He heads south to L.A. after swinging through Palo Alto to check on Sam. If Dean was surprised he chose California over Michigan when it came to picking a job, well, he had the good sense not to mention it.

He’s always kept his boys away from here. The city doesn’t just turn up the occasional case, it’s a battleground, a war zone. Too much even for John to handle on his own, except this time he’s got a bead on the demon. When it doesn’t pan out, he can’t help the flare of disappointment—no, rage—in his gut.

It’s midnight and he’s sitting in what has to be the last smoky, gritty bar in a city of plastic and glitter when he spots her. She's tall, slender, and impeccably dressed for a room full of union types and out-of-work truckers in faded baseball caps. Every few minutes she checks a slim gold watch on one wrist, pushing up the sleeve of her dress. It’s blue like twilight, deeper than her eyes.

He nurses a whiskey, glances sideways when she gets up and comes to stand beside him, waiting for the barkeep to take the twenty folded in her hand.

“What’d you have?” He’s surprised to hear himself ask the question, more surprised when she doesn’t flinch.

“Two gin and tonics.” Her voice is as smooth as the rest of her, polished and expensive.

He wants to shred that voice. Hear it rough and raw and pleading, a shiver against his skin. “Consider them on me.”

*

_now_

She doesn’t even kiss him. Just slides onto his lap, pulling her shirt off. “Learn any other new tricks?” she whispers before she bites at his throat. Her teeth are just as sharp, scraping heat.

“Guess you’ll find out.” He cups her ass, digging his fingers in deep, waiting for her to flex into it. Lilah likes it rough. Likes it to hurt, more than a little. He’s happy to oblige.

She wriggles, grinding into his lap, against his cock, and he leans to down sink his teeth into her collarbone. She tastes the same, dark and slightly smoky, and the scent of her wet floats up from between her legs.

“Not getting much these days?” he husks out.

“What can I say?” She wriggles backward to unbuckle his belt. “I like my men really tortured. Surprising you don’t find more of that here.”

He smacks her ass hard through her skirt, and she just laughs. “That’s better.”

“Shut up, Lilah.”

She flicks open the button of his jeans, tugs down the zipper. “Make me.”

He’s so hard it’s almost painful. He wants to rut, fuck, bite, bruise, because this place? Feels like forever already. Has from the first moment. And there’s nowhere to put the rage, the frustration, the grief. They’re his to keep now, to wear like he once wore his leather jacket.

So he knocks at her chin with his cheek, nudging her into range, licks into her mouth relentlessly, bites down on her lower lip. She growls, bites back until he tastes the metallic tang of blood.

It’s on.

*

_then_

She lifts an eyebrow at the motel room, but she doesn’t pretend it’s going to change her mind. By the time he’s got the door closed and his coat off, she’s kicked off her shoes and is reaching behind her for the zipper of her dress.

“Let me.” He slides it over one shoulder slowly, getting a feel for the shape of her, the heat, and she looks over her shoulder, lazy and sure of herself.

“You always such a gentleman? Because I can get that at the office.”

He can taste his own hunger then, sharp and hot on his tongue. It’s fierce, unformed, and the raw edge of it feels just fine. “We’re not at your office.” And tugs her dress down roughly, fighting a growl when she just laughs and kicks the puddle of fabric away.

“Thank god for that.” She turns, twisting free of his hands, and stretches up to lick along his jawbone. “Take your shirt off.”

He doesn’t bother to answer her, just reaches around to unhook her bra, then sets her back so he can look, touch. She flushes, but she’s still got that cat’s smile, and she arches into his hands, biting her lip when he squeezes.

Not gentle, not polite, not tentative. It feels good.

“Your turn,” she murmurs, reaching for his shirt, her voice silky again.

He laughs this time, a low rasp in his throat. “Think again.” Her panties are silky, too, and they slip over her hips like water.

And then she’s naked, near, eyes flashing in challenge or invitation, he can’t tell which. He’s not going to get a minute of sleep tonight. He doesn’t care. 

Two days later, he’s still stunned by how often and how hard he can fuck her, and how little it takes the edge off his grief, or his rage.

*

_now_

He rips her shirt when he wrenches it off her. She laughs, delighted, the gaping smile across her throat gleaming wet at him.

“What’s your hurry?” She grinds into his lap. “We’ve got forever, or didn’t you hear?”

Fuck forever. He wants this, right now, and he lifts her up, props her against his chest so he can work his fingers under her skirt. She’s already hot and slippery, and she spreads her legs, ready for him.

Two fingers, three, doesn’t matter, she wants them, bites at his jaw. “Right there,” she grits out, squirming to get his fingers deeper. “Harder. Come on, Winchester. You know you don’t have to play nice with me.”

He shudders. It’s what she says as much as what she does that goes straight to his cock, a rush of dirty heat, a mean little spur, kicking his frustration up as high as his need.

“Or maybe you want something else?” She stripes his collarbone with her wet tongue, scrapes her teeth over his windpipe. “A white nightgown, maybe? A long blonde wig?”

A warning tears from his throat, and he shoves her off his lap and onto her back, holding one thigh down while he opens his belt and his fly with his free hand. His cock jerks toward her, already slick, and she licks her bottom lip when he kneels and drives into her, one long, vicious thrust.

“That’s better,” she purrs, and wraps her legs around him, bucking up to meet him, a dark, wet clutch of heat. He’s balls deep, his hips slamming into hers, his fingers rough on her upper arms. There will be bruises later, finger-shaped marks to prove how brutally he held her down, and he doesn’t care. She wants this. It’s punishment as much as pleasure, for both of them.

She never stops talking, figured out the first time that the sound of her voice drove him deeper, and the filthier she got, the longer he would tongue her, finger her, bite her. He doesn’t even really hear it, not past the buzzing fog of need, the urgent crack of his hips into all that wet, wet, tight heat, grinding to feel the friction, almost a burn, groaning as the head touches home again and again.

She’s still murmuring—“fuck me harder, baby, give me all of it”—when it starts, a rolling tingle first, sliding into a harsh jerk, and then he’s coming, shaking and spilling inside her, only distantly feeling her clench tight in a shuddering ripple.

It’s only the first time. They’ve got forever.


End file.
